


by just such a hazard

by Mira_Jade



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: . . . and John Laurens' 'Intrepidity Bordering on Rashness' stars as its own character, . . . and Washingdad trying to be subtle about the 'dad' part, . . .10k words of it to be precise, Canon Era, Character Study, Coping, Family of Choice, Featuring Alexander 'I Need No One - Except for You' Hamilton, Friendship, Gen, In which the Marquis de Lafayette is too good for this world, Introspection, War, When I say 'Character Study' I mean it in a long way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Marquis de Lafayette is forced to keep to his bed following his injuries sustained at Brandywine creek, and one Alexander Hamilton finally takes a break in order to see that his friend does as well. John Laurens, meanwhile, gets to decide just where the war will take him, and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by just such a hazard

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, this year has not been much conducive to writing for me, but that is a state of affairs I hope to change right about . . . _now_. To that end, I have been working on this piece for a few months, and am only now satisfied enough with it to share - finally. I hope that you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)
> 
> (And, if you are interested in the historical backdrop I chose as my setting, I have a brief summary in the end-notes for your reading pleasure. Most of it is pretty much alluded to in the text, but it's plainly stated there for if you are just curious, or seeking to refresh your memory. Because I am a history nerd that way, and I love sharing. ;))

 

  
_“_ _Soul, Wilt thou toss again?  
__By just such a hazard  
__Hundreds have lost indeed —  
__But tens have won an all”_  

~ Emily Dickinson

  
  
Even as the sun set behind the thick mar of clouds, the overcast sky losing its faint flush of violet light to seemingly hurry on more swiftly towards the night, the house that served as General Washington's headquarters in Chester was a veritable whirlwind of activity. The yard was swimming with soldiers and volunteer civilians alike, all darting by like fish through coral as they went about their various tasks and duties. Shining through the gloom, lights from the mansion-house flickered at nearly every window, showing where very few broke from their work to slow for the coming end of day. The flashing shapes and ruckus of noise was such that the ceilings and walls barely seemed solid enough to contain the restless souls within by so paltry a construction of wooden beams and glass panes, so much so that Alexander Hamilton wondered at it in the weary, thin part of his mind that still had the ability for abstract thought. Though their last confrontation with the enemy had ended in little more than an unequivocal disaster at Brandywine creek, the spirits of the men were high, and their zeal was all but boiling their bones in their blood for the next confrontation to come – a fact that Washington intended to capitalize on, and for which he himself wished -  
  
\- well, he would no doubt wish a great deal more after he found a chance to wash up and take his portion of whatever passed for supper that evening. The shape of that thought had him pausing on the covered porch as he shook out the rainwater from his coat, wincing as the cold droplets splattered on his already soaked uniform and chilled skin. The ominously grey skies of the morning had finally given way to the full deluge of an autumn rainstorm with the noon hour, and the oncoming night already held a clear bite of cold in its breath as the deluge turned icy, warning of the harsh winter they all instinctively felt was to follow. He frowned, feeling where his body already rattled in answer to the chill – he being not yet completely recovered from his impromptu douse in the Schuylkill river as he was, even seven days' past that unfortunate event. Rest and warmth were required by his body - as absolute needs, irrefutably so - his good sense whispered, but he would see but little of either until the army retired for the winter, and, even then, only would his reprieve be in theory - this he wanly prophesied. _Valley Forge_ , he muttered as he ducked into the warmth of the house: what a droll sound that place already was to his ears.  
  
But, Hamilton next thought with a quick rush of bitter satisfaction, ignoring his chilled limbs and taxed bones, the British would receive nothing of their capitol's bounty but for the town itself thanks to his efforts since Brandywine; he could sleep in peace and comfort when he was dead. Probably.  
  
Shortly thereafter, he worked through a haze of well wishes and greetings to steal away and plop down before a merrily flickering hearth-fire in the one unoccupied parlor he could find. His coat was spread out on a wooden chair next to him so as to dry in time for the morning, and he was dutifully delving into his supper for his body's sake, rather than finding any true joy in the meal, when a shadow fell by the entrance to the half-lit room, and lingered.  
  
Hamilton only looked up when his weary mind suggested that there was only one person who cast so long and wide a shade – at least, only one who would seek him out when he had clearly opted for peace and solitude over the company of his comrades. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm his suspicions, just in time to hear George Washington's soft greeting, “Lieutenant Colonel, I heard report of your return.”  
  
“Your Excellency,” the soldier's deeply ingrained instinct to rise to his feet and stand at ready before his commander warred with his weary feet and the all but magnetic warmth of the fire. Perhaps anticipating his inner dilemma, Washington shook his head and waved his hand in a barely perceptible order for him to remain as he was. Hamilton merely nodded his head in acknowledgment, and resignedly shoveled in another mouthful of mutton. He'd never much cared for mutton.  
  
Without saying a word, Washington walked further into the parlor, and finally came to stand behind the chair his outstretched coat was draped upon. His eyes only flickered down and over him once before turning to neutrally stare at the flames, and Hamilton held himself stiff and unmoving underneath the barely perceptible scrutiny, seeing where the general shrewdly took in the discolored patches on the otherwise buff tones of his uniform - stains of soot and saddle-rub and dirt - along with the several days' worth of caked earth that had built on the soles and sides of his boots from the heavy rains and flooded roads. But his not-quite parade worthy uniform was not mentioned, nor was he asked of his health and well-being when the lack of such an image whispered more clearly than any words he could have spoken aloud. Hamilton would accept the compromise - grudgingly.  
  
“Has your venture proven successful?” Washington at last inquired, his words carefully shaped as they pierced the quiet.  
  
“Successful enough.” Hamilton merely shrugged to punctuate his answer, even while well understanding the trust that had been placed in him to see to the potentially . . . dictatorial task of confiscating any goods the British could make use of in the most _democratic_ way possible. At the war's end, their nation would have several receipts to answer for their destruction – and reclamation – of goods and property from the citizens who wearily - to put it best - accepted their promises. He could only trust, and hope that Congress would remember their debts and honor their word on the other side of the conflict they fought in. The knowledge that he - _he -_ had been entrusted with such a solemn endeavor over those older and more experienced - if not wiser - caused a faintly warm glow to spread throughout his chest, and he could not quite keep himself from smiling with a shark's grin. He hid the expression by taking a slow drawn from his wine glass, appreciating the quality of the vintage from their being so close to Philadelphia. It was, he suspected, a luxury that would not last them the whole of the winter through.  
  
“There are two last mills upon the river that we seek to hit at first light,” he continued, “but they will wait for the dawn. My men have not had much respite the last fortnight, and the rains grant us a justifiable pretext for rest; for a few hours, at least.”  
  
Washington made a low sound in the back of his throat in acknowledgment of his report, and only commented, “The winter will provide rest enough for all the men in the weeks to come.” He paused, and added in a voice that sounded weary even to Hamilton's ears, “In its own way, that is.”  
  
Hamilton nodded in agreement, having already thought along much of the same lines as the general. He scrapped his fork over his plate for the last remnants of his supper, experience having long taught him to value any meal he could find when he could find it - especially while knowing just how ill the army was to afford such basic provisions for those who served it. The wine he was slower to enjoy as he returned to staring into the flames, all the while leaning back and allowing his body to relax against the cushioned chair. There were a very few people he could find silence agreeable with – with the ability to still his tongue and quiet his mind ever being a feat quite beyond his grasp, or so it seemed - but his commander was one of those few, and he left Washington to his thoughts without bothering to prod and see them spoken aloud. A long moment passed as such before he heard a nearly imperceptible sigh, and Washington then asked: “Have you yet checked in on the marquis?”  
  
He blinked in reply, and looked up, but saw nothing in Washington's expression to betray his innermost thoughts. And yet: _m_ _arquis_. Hamilton fought the urge to snort at his formal use of the Frenchman's title, especially to his ears and his alone, but he did not comment on the address beyond the confines of his thoughts.  
  
“Not yet,” Hamilton finally answered, “but I had intended to.” Eventually, he knew. He was just not sure _when_ – his plans prior to that moment had only involved finding a quiet place to wash up and then crash in a real bed - or sleeping pallet - for a few hours of shallow slumber before awakening and setting out on his mission again. Uncomfortably, he let his mind recall that while he had survived their engagement with the British at Brandywine unscathed – surprisingly so for his position in the line of fire by Washington's side – his brother in arms had not been so fortunate. Lafayette had taken a musket-ball to the leg early in the encounter, and his refusing to have the wound seen to in favor of riding hard the rest of the day – no matter that he had rallied their men and prevented a disastrous rout from being even more so – had resulted in his nearly losing the limb in the days following. Washington's own surgeon had seen to Lafayette's surprisingly good fortune - _tend to him as if he were my own son_ , still rang in Hamilton's ears, echoing in a way he could not quite define - but had he been any other soldier . . .  
  
Hamilton felt his fingertips press into the delicate stem of his glass as he recalled the sad string of broken and battered men who even now fought for life and limb in the medicinal tents; he had to swallow in order to wet his suddenly dry throat at the idea. In all his dreams of war and glory, death, when it factored, had always been a clean, noble thing to his imaginings. Not . . .  
  
. . . but he inhaled, and collected himself. When he blinked, he no longer saw those wretched faces under the surgeons' care, caught between the apathy of those who had given in to the wreckage of their physical forms and the fervent desperation of those still fighting, long after the cannons had ceased their song. Instead, he focused on the warm shades of the fire as the flames undulated from the softest of golds to the sharpest of oranges and back again. A log snapped as moisture in the wood evaporated with a popping sound, and he blinked in order to clear his mind of its wanderings.  
  
“How does Lafayette fare? I've yet to hear,” Hamilton asked then. He had not seen his friend since the day he first rode out, fast on the heels of their defeat, and he had not allowed himself to think of him long or often while the particulars of his task so dominated his mind. He could not.  
  
“Well enough, or so I am told,” Washington answered after a heartbeat. “He has an admirable constitution; he heals well, and quickly.”  
  
Hamilton frowned, and glanced to his left in order to espy the older man's face in the half light. The flames flickered, returning colour and vitality to Washington's normally warm complexion as they danced, but their glow could not hide the faint furrowing between his brows or the pinched line his mouth made. A sudden suspicion took root in Hamilton's mind and he spoke on an impulse, commenting before first considering:  
  
“You know, _you_ could check on him. I'm sure that he would welcome the attention.” A heartbeat passed - one and then two - and he flinched to hastily add, _“Sir.”_  
  
A muscle in Washington's jaw worked, but he did not immediately offer a reply. He did not defend: _I have been busy, time has not_ _permitt_ _ed me;_ nor did he deflect: _I will, perhaps, later_ – as an average man may have offered in rote, instinctively routing the conversation without a thought for their doing so. Washington said nothing of the kind; instead, he held himself stiffly, and made a mask of his face.  
  
And Hamilton understood, with awareness then flashing across his thoughts as bright and brief as storm-light. He stifled the urge he had to sigh by taking a long draw from his glass, letting the dark vintage slow his impulse to leap on his understanding with a following flow of words.  
  
“Gilbert,” he said slowly, carefully – fighting to find a timbre that held neither consolation or absolution or condescension but yet, perhaps, intending all three, “would be the last to ascribe any sort of blame for our defeat. He, of all men, would not hold you accountable for his wounds.” _Or_ _for_ _Philadelphia's loss_ , he bit his tongue to keep from adding. He swallowed the words as if they were embers, and felt them burn to settle in his gut.  
  
A long moment passed, so long that Hamilton did not first think that his commander intended to give his words an answer. And yet: “In that, he would be one of the few,” Washington's voice was a quiet rumble, given more to the shadows and flickering light than it was intended for his ears. But heard him Hamilton did, and, in answer . . .  
  
He made a vague sound in the back of his throat, and belayed his instinctive response - what he first _wanted_ to say, knowing that such a tide of words would only tear down where they needed to stand tall, then more so than ever. At the same time, he was weary and saddle-sore and had spent too many days sleeping on the cold ground in stolen bursts of repose to find any sort of graceful speech within himself. He could not spin a web of half-truths from his heart in that moment; and so, he said nothing. Perhaps, by doing so, his innermost thoughts were loudly heard, even so. He watched as Washington's habitually straight posture turned rigid, as if expecting the very blow that Hamilton fought to withhold.  
  
Instead, he exhaled, letting the tension leave his body as he lazily reminded the general, “I have to leave at first light, you know.”  
  
“As I am well aware,” Washington answered simply. His every word was lined with a crisp, exacting timbre. “I ask only for a moment of your time tonight.”  
  
Unsure why he was debating what he would have done on his own, unbidden, he nonetheless found his teeth flashing to return, “You don't intend for me to sleep, sir, do you?”  
  
“Would you normally?” was Washington's somewhat dry query in reply. For a moment, Hamilton thought that the general – who did not ever touch others and rarely welcomed such physical contact himself, would place a hand on his shoulder. Hamilton stiffened at the idea, and felt his eyes narrow; he was sure that Washington noticed, for the grim glimpse of humor he'd allowed through the iron bars of his control then faded. He took a step back from the chair and clasped his hands together to sternly command, “As it is, I'd not have the marquis kept up later than is reasonable. Such, I am sure, you can certainly understand.”  
  
“Of course, sir,” Hamilton inclined his head, and may have lazily saluted in a pantomime of respect had Washington not inclined his head in a finite motion, forestalling any such gesture on his part.  
  
“I'm glad that we are of a matching mind,” Washington gruffly approved, and Hamilton heard the conversation's end in his words. “I wish the rest of your evening well, Lieutenant Colonel.” He then turned and took his leave; his steps whispered across the floorboards, his great shadow flickered, and then he was gone, leaving Hamilton to his wine and his thoughts. He finished the former in one swallow and tried not to much dwell on the latter.  
  
He did not linger by the fire for long, only staying until his body remembered how it felt to know warmth once more, and he then stood to change out of his soiled uniform and clean himself up from his days on the road. When he made his way to the small room that the general's aide-de-camps shared, he was first surprised to find it empty and then pleased to see that a tin tub had been brought up – presumably for his use. The water within was still hot; steam rose from its surface - a veritable luxury in any of their wartime camps, and more than equal to any pot of gold in his eyes. He felt an odd pang pierce the underside of his chest, knowing that the household staff would not have been bothered for such an indulgence when the army had all but swallowed the property like locusts upon a field, no matter their best intentions to be easy and appreciative leasers. Such an endeavor, logic whispered, must have been accomplished by his fellow aides. Briefly, he wondered if such a kindness had been . . . suggested, or done unbidden. Either way, Hamilton knew, this wouldn't have been the first time one in their family took care of the other, and the knowledge that it would not be the last . . .  
  
He admittedly dawdled, soaking in the warmth of the water until his fingertips pruned and the bath cooled to the point of discomfort in the chilly room; but he felt refreshed and clean and more than ready to face the trials of the days still yet to come. As he dried himself off, he eyed the tidy row of pallets pushed up against the far wall of the room, for a moment feeling the temptation to simply lie down and forget about the world for a few hours, and yet . . .  
  
Soon, he told himself, and shrugged into clean breeches and a cotton shirt – frowning to think of how he'd have to wash his vest and uniform jacket, along with his second shirt and pair of breeches, so that they'd have time enough to dry before setting off in the morning. Having never cared for laundering, but never quite being in a position where he could often escape the task, he resolved to think about that odious chore later. Instead, he hastily tied back his still damp hair, and was then out the door and heading down the hall for where he knew Lafayette to be quietly and comfortably cocooned away from the rest of the busy household as a whole.  
  
For that was the most accurate way to phrase it. Rather than Washington taking the best room for himself, he had surrendered the capacious bed and the warmly burning fireplace for the Frenchman's recovery, choosing instead to live out of the study he was using as his war room for the few remaining days until their army broke camp to advance on Germantown. There was, Hamilton knew, no possible way that Lafayette would be able to quit his bed, let along march and mount a horse, by the time they were set to move, and his friend would have to be left behind for a time. That thought affixed a frown to his face, and his hand paused about the door handle as he drew in a deep breath, doing his best to settle his expression. Lafayette did not need to see his frown - he needed only to focus on his own recovery, and for that Hamilton relaxed his features and forced a smile to the thin line his mouth wished to form. Finally, he opened the door.  
  
He first paused to linger on the feeling of warmth within the room, forcing himself to ignore the sour, medicinal scent that ever accompanied a chamber holding a sickbed. Even with his first preparing himself, the sensory assault brought back uneasy memories of the humid, too-warm home of his childhood and the sticky feel of the sheets clinging to his skin as his mother struggled to breathe her last. As with the embrace of a ghost, he could recall the weak, stubborn pressure of her arms around his child-self until suddenly he could not – but he blinked, and fought his memories away with the iron hand of familiarity. Hamilton swallowed, and felt the back of his throat burn, knowing – if he was truly honest with himself – that he had been grateful for an excuse to avoid his friend with the pressing matter of his mission thus far. He had been brief in visiting Lafayette before his initial leaving, and he had not since taken the time to call - even on the days when his men had returned to headquarters to resupply and report. Now, he took in a shallow breath and forced himself to turn towards the fire before looking over to Lafayette, grounding himself with sight of the flames. The fire within the hearth was well tended and crackled merrily; waiting by it was a tidy basket filled with chopped logs, ensuring that it would burn well and long throughout the night. The room was small enough to be easily heated but large enough to be considered spacious, with all of the amenities a guest could ask for from a wash basin to a writing desk for when Lafayette was on his feet again. Until then, the bed he occupied looked more comfortably indulgent than anything Hamilton could remember sleeping on in recent memory - with crisp linen sheets and thick quilts and a veritable magpie's nest of pillows. He highly suspected that so many pillows did not normally occupy the bed, but did not comment on the fact – he could not when Lafayette looked up at his arrival, and a bright, broad smile split his face as understanding dawned.  
  
“ _Mon ami, Alexandre!_ It is good to see you,” Lafayette waved him over to his bedside – unwilling to allow so cold a greeting as a bow and formal 'hello' stand when he could wave him down to kiss first his left cheek and then his right. Though Hamilton may have inwardly rolled his eyes at the markedly French demonstration of affection, he outwardly closed his eyes against the adoring welcome, feeling warmth bloom from deep within his chest, tender and consuming. Full with that contentment, he clasped a hand on the marquis' shoulder as he straightened to stand once more, unwilling to wholly give up the contact between them.  
  
“Does a ghost stand before me? The last I heard, the river took you; there were rumors that you found your tomb therein,” Lafayette grinned to say. He seemed to be sitting upright on his own, Hamilton tried to observe without being obtrusive in his scrutiny, whereas two weeks ago he had been lost to an opiate haze from his laudanum treatment, sleeping even through the high noon of the day. Now, though his face was uncharacteristically pale from his recovery - with the warm umber shade of his skin blanched, nearly blending in with the dull white fabric of his night-shirt, and admittedly stark against the bound, dark curls of his hair - his eyes were as healthily bright as they ever were, holding a sharp canniness that ever bellied his easy words and freely abundant affections. Hamilton forced himself to focus on that familiar glow, refusing to look down to where his leg was bandaged and all but screamed of his injury and subsequent healing for any to hear. With his determination as such, he fought to keep his mouth from pressing downwards into a frown as Lafayette continued, “But it seems that, once again, even Hades himself did not have the ears to bear your mouth in his kingdom, and he entreated Thanatos to keep you amongst the living for a little while longer.”  
  
“You should know better than to listen to rumors, my friend: you're as bad a busybody as an old woman,” Hamilton clucked his tongue to mockingly scold. He glanced to the opposite side of the bed, and saw John Laurens sitting there with a glad twist in his heart. The Carolinian was leaning back in his chair in a deceivingly lazy manner, with a deck of cards in his hands that he shuffled from whatever game he had just been entertaining their bedridden friend with. Hamilton had felt the other man's stare since the moment he entered, and his gaze was as warm and fond as Lafayette's when he turned to acknowledge his presence by saying, “Though something tells me that I need look no father to espy your fellow gossip-hen.”  
  
“Well,” Laurens raised a brow, the faint drawl of his southern accent a slow and liquid thing to his ears, “for you to give us so scintillating a story as your near miss with the grave, you must have known that I would be obligated to pass the tale on to those who could not witness it for themselves.”  
  
“As always,” Hamilton gave a mock bow to say, “I but live for the amusement of my friends. I'm glad to know that the false reports of my death could prove to be so titillating a tale to you both.”  
  
“There was indeed lamentation, before the truth came out,” Lafayette wagged a finger to say. “A great many tears were shed, I'd have you know.”  
  
“Though the likes of Conway and his ilk were hiding their smiles behind their hands to hear,” Laurens frowned to add. Hamilton watched his fingers press about the deck of cards, the tips momentarily turning white, before he divided them in half again. “The general could not speak after hearing the report,” he added after a moment, his voice thoughtful and his eyes unblinking. “He had to have the others quit the room.”  
  
“Then it's all the more a pity that I returned when I did,” Hamilton's words were lined with a cutting humor in answer to the odd rise of emotion he could feel in his chest, remembering: _it is good to see you alive, son_ and Washington's strong hand tightly gripping his shoulder before turning away, some flash of emotion in his eyes there and gone too quickly to properly be seen. It was something he could not quite process as it happened, and he had not allowed himself to consider the moment much since then. “If I had waited a day or so, I may have interrupted my own eulogy,” he continued with an exaggerated flippantly. “I am curious as to what would have been said about me.”  
  
“It is well that you returned when you did,” Laurens returned with a cross roll of his eyes. “I had not yet decided if I would count you amongst the best of friends or the most unbearable of asses; you have no idea how I warred within myself for what I would say.”  
  
“If ever I find my way so prematurely to the mansions of rest, I do hope you'll dub me both,” Hamilton easily lapsed into the role of the offended. He placed a hand over his heart. “It is, undoubtedly, what I'd say of _you_ , dear John.”  
  
But he held Laurens' eyes, and he did not have to focus to see the depths of relief underneath the bright surface of his humor. It had been the same just that week ago, with Washington having only turned away for a heartbeat before Laurens took his place and swallowed him in an embrace, laughing through his stunned disbelief to scold in his ear: _you sly_ _devil_ _,_ _don't ever do that to me again._ Even so, his voice had been thick with his recovering grief, and his arms were tight, as if he had cooled iron poured into the mold of his bones.  
  
Hamilton had only an hour returned to life amongst his comrades before setting out on his mission again. His 'death' had quite interrupted his schedule, and there was work to be done. But, the relief and affection in Lafayette's eyes then followed him as he moved around to the other side of the bed and took a seat in one of the empty chair next to Laurens. The weight of that look was enough to remind him of the grasping currents and cold fingers of the river all over again, and he blinked to clear the ghostly sensations away. He and death were as water and oil to each other thus far, and yet, someday, it would take only a fraction of a second, a shot not taken, and he knew -  
  
\- yet, then was not the time for such thoughts. Later there would be the dark and the quiet as his mind fought to find stillness enough for sleep. Now, however . . .  
  
“So,” Hamilton gestured to the cards with an overly bright voice, ready to raise a different subject between them, “what are we playing?”  
  
“We had not started anything yet,” Lafayette answered. “So you may help us choose a game.”  
  
“I had only just relieved Lady Washington before you walked in,” Laurens revealed. “It is my turn to keep the invalid company; we keep shifts, you see.” His eyes glittered teasingly as he glanced to Lafayette, but he spoke in all seriousness, Hamilton understood.  
  
“Though I have said, more than once, that I do not need a _nurse_ ,” Lafayette grumbled, though without much rancor to his voice. In full health, he enjoyed accolades and the fawning of his friends without shame or reservation; Hamilton could only imagine what he was like when confined to the sickbed. “I, especially, do not need the lady here when she should be by her husband's side. He needs every shield, every _weapon_ ,” for this, the Frenchman's eyes glinted to say, “available to him, dealing with this latest foul turn God has seen fit to test our cause with as he is.”  
  
Hamilton just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes and commenting aloud that they were _both_ mother-hens where the other was concerned, the general and the marquis, and it was sickening to watch at times. Yet, he said nothing of the sort, and instead watched as Laurens shuffled the worn deck of cards once more. He caught the flash of an ace before it was swallowed by the monotony of the diamond patterned backs, but did not glimpse the card again.  
  
“For which, that said, I am relieved that you are here,” Lafayette continued in a carefully measured tone of voice. Hamilton looked up at its sound, already anticipating the request he was sure to follow. “No one tells me anything, my sick-room is as a tomb, and dear John here has all but swallowed his tongue as to the goings on beyond this chamber. You, I am sure, shall not be nearly so circumspect.”  
  
“You are to be resting,” Hamilton nonetheless disagreed with Lafayette's assessment of his character - glad as he was that the other man had been forced to peace and quiet - just as Laurens frowned to say, “You rode on that leg much too long after sustaining that shot. Now you must pay the price for your obstinacy in the form of your recovery.”  
  
“My ignoring my wounds in the heat of battle was _necessary_ ,” Lafayette frowned to return, caring little for the implications of Laurens' words. His voice was a fierce slash of sound, and a dark look bloomed to shade his eyes as the hands of a specter. “The way to Philadelphia depended on my ability to hold my seat, to hold our men on course, and as that way is now open to our enemy - ”  
  
“ - which is _precisely_ the sort of topic we are to ignore,” Hamilton chided with a lilting, sing-song quality to his words. Lafayette glared at him, but he merely held the expression baldly, unfazed.  
  
“Anything more than the weather,” Laurens pleasantly agreed, “or what flavor of tea you prefer is to be ignored and -  
  
“ - oh, but that is rich, coming from _yo_ _u_ ,” Lafayette scowled to rebuke. “The only difference between you and I is that I _avoided_ this sickbed at all cost, whilst you were doing everything in your power to see yourself either wounded or dead on the battlefield. You were as a man possessed, and I was not the only one to notice and find cause for worry – and rightly so, may I add. I am surprised that you thought my _invalid status_ would prevent me from mentioning it.”  
  
Hamilton glanced to Laurens, and first expected to hear a denial for him, defending that he was a soldier, and, as such, he was simply doing a soldier's duty during a contest when the odds were stacked against them in every conceivable way possible. Lafayette's words were his own words, his own thoughts - yet he had long hoped that such an observation was merely his own, distorted through the lens of friendship, with his innermost heart worrying and yearning for his comrade to make it through the war alive and unharmed. Now, however . . .  
  
Laurens did not waste his words where a lie would half color, and instead said, with firmness shaping his mouth and lead lining his tongue, “As you said, the road to Philadelphia was open. I did my part to see it closed.”  
  
“But there will be many such roads in this war,” Lafayette returned, his voice warming from his accusation to say with feeling, “and you are needed for them all. There is a difference between bravery and recklessness; and while one is essential to lead, the other is just as detrimental an example to set.”  
  
“But, do you not know?” Laurens' expression turned withering, touched with the sort of brooding ill-humor he slipped on and off as easily as he wore his affection for his friends openly on his sleeve for all to see. “I considered myself firmly within the shadowing umbrella of Providence that so shields our commander-in-chief. If _he_ can ride into the fray without a wound to ever show for it, then I believed that I can do the same; you see, there was no such recklessness on my part with that reasoning in mind.”  
  
At that, Hamilton snorted outright; he could not hide the dark sort of look that flashed in his eyes, stemming from the black fountain of emotion that he ever endeavored to keep down, deep within himself. It was a spring from which Laurens too knew how to dip into and drink from, and a far off, distant part of his mind worried for it.  
  
“You do not agree with me, Alexander?” Laurens raised a brow, his voice curious as he inquired.  
  
“I think that it was a rudimentary mistake that lost us the field,” Hamilton at last stated outright the opinion that had been waiting on the tip of his tongue, unspoken out of loyalty where the likes of Conway and Gates and _Lee_ all but sang it aloud in unerring chorus. But here, amongst those closest to him . . . “We needed our general to lead us at Brandywine; instead we were defeated by superior knowledge of our own terrain - cut down with a sword of wisdom wielded by a man who has never set foot on American soil before the advent of this conflict. It is a hard tonic to swallow, and I care not for its taste.”  
  
And it was a bitter brew that he drank from time and time again, with every mill destroyed and field torched and storehouse emptied . . . he being up close and personal to witness the faces of the citizens they fought for - many of which whom cared not for the title of United States or Crown Colonies, wishing only to live in peace from conflict underneath a just rule, no matter whose rule that was. Some cursed their cause openly, all but terrified to imagine: if their oppression was great before, how would King George treat his _erring children_ once they were returned to the fold of his Empire by force? What liberties could they think to claim then? What liberties could be expected from those who sought to reclaim them by force, even? What could the people do if Congress decided to take on a master's whip, with their general trading in his tricorne for a crown, the same as the triumphant Julius Caesar of old . . . such whispers amongst the people were as many as they were validly concerned for their livelihood and very _lives_. So far, the shadow of fate had somehow kept them from the void of defeat, if not the sting of loss, and yet, with every receipt he wrote, Hamilton could not help but think _if only . . ._ if only _he_ had led his men as they deserved to be led, then . . .  
  
. . . especially when dear Lafayette . . . when dearest _Laurens_ . . .  
  
He then looked up, glancing from Laurens' shadowed eyes to Lafayette all but swallowed by the comfort of his sickbed, and thought: only one mistake, one last crucial _error_ was needed for the comforting shield of Providence to slip, and then take from its edges . . .  
  
. . . but Hamilton swallowed, trying to drive away the sharp points of his thoughts. No matter how he tried, however, his throat seemingly worked around a blade.  
  
“The scouts' reports were contradictory,” Lafayette did not quite agree with his assessment of Washington's performance on the field. There was an odd edge to his voice that Hamilton had not heard from him before – one that he distantly understood as defense, the same as a wolf standing before his pack with his ears back and his teeth bared, and he was momentarily surprised that such a tone was directed at _him_. “Even you yourself did not see fit to mend the error in our general's logic – for such things are always clearer when the road is behind you. In the heat of the moment, the forks in our path were many, and the best that we offered down an erring way was simply not enough. Next time, it shall be.”  
  
Be that as it may . . . Hamilton still could not fight his frown away, so much so that he was startled from his down-turned gaze when Lafayette reached over to rest a comforting hand on his arm. He looked up, and was, as ever, taken by the low, fervent glow that lit his eyes the same as a blaze feeding on dry kindling. At that moment, the Frenchman may not have had the strength to walk, but the pressure from his fingertips was strong; Hamilton was not permitted to look away.  
  
“Sometimes,” Lafayette began with a sigh, “I think that you yourselves do not understand the fight you are embroiled in; you are too close to the center of this conflict to see with an objective eye. Yes: when compared to the officers in the British army, our commander-in-chief lacks both experience in large-scale warfare and the formal military education those leading our foes have received in spades."  
  
"You don't say," Hamilton inhaled to sharply drawl.  
  
But Lafayette continued as if he had not heard him. "When added to this, our general commands not battle-hardened soldiers - the killing elite of our globe - but rather, a fighting force padded by young boys and old men; some fighting with scrapped together weapons without even a _uniform_ available to every soldier, let alone munitions and the basic staples of life."  
  
"As I have just spent the past weeks trying to rectify," Hamilton agreed stiffly. "Tyrannically so, may I add - which is as hypocritical as it is ironic."  
  
And still, Lafayette ignored him. His fingertips pressed into his arm, and his eyes held his as the moon tugging on the tides. "By your own mouth you understand the uneven stack of this conflict, then. Yet, even in the face of such odds, we have seen their red backs flee from us; we _surprised_ them at Princeton and Trenton, and there claimed _victories_ ; we have so far _survived_ against the greatest machine of war this earth has yet known, for longer than anyone had ever first thought possible. Now, if you think that such a feat has been done _in spite of_ , rather than largely due to the man who leads us now - the man who takes the weight for every one of our so-called _failures_ as Atlas with the weight of the world upon his shoulders - then I do not understand the genius of your mind which you so claim to profess.”  
  
But it was of no matter to his heart the cool logic of his brain. Even if every one of Lafayette's fervent words were true, due to an amateur mistake, he could have lost . . . he could have had taken from him, _again_ . . .  
  
Hamilton swallowed, and could not complete his thought, even within the confines of his own mind. It was yet too great a pain to fathom, even in theory. For so long living without - _enduring without_ \- to have the bonds of friendship and family placed so close to him and then taken . . .  
  
For so long he had kept himself from grasping onto those around him for the certainty that nothing in life was stable, nothing was secure; every day was only to be lived for itself, not for tomorrow. And yet, now . . . he found that he wanted tomorrow . . . he wanted the year following . . . he wanted the _future_ as they were even now poised to create it. Yet, without those dearest to him by his side, that future . . .  
  
“But we _survived_ , we three,” Lafayette read his look and rightly interpreted it. The hand resting upon his arm squeezed, and he took comfort from the contact, in the strength it conveyed, even when his body's power was at its weakest. “Take heart; your countrymen showed courage in the field – amazingly so, and your loss was not through lack of valor, but from poor conditions and poor intelligence. I wish to rise and tell the general this myself, and yet . . .”  
  
Lafayette sat up straighter, as if he wished to force his body to stand and walk at that very moment. Alarmed, Hamilton surged forward at the same time Laurens did to push on his shoulder and force him to keep to his place.  
  
“No,” Laurens was the one to cluck his tongue and chide. “You will undo all of the surgeon's fine work, and I do not want to see what Lady Washington would leave of me if I allowed you to attempt those stairs when you cannot even stand.”  
  
“Yet, if the mountain will not come to me, then I shall go to the mountain,” Lafayette stubbornly protested. His brow furrowed impressively, no matter that his mere struggling to stand and leave the bed had sweat beading on his forehead and his night-shirt sticking to his skin. His chest noticeably heaved as his lungs worked to support his efforts, and Hamilton did not want to see what would become of his leg if he was allowed to put any sort of weight on it. Well knowing his body's limitations, but determined to ignore them, Lafayette's accent thickened with his frustration and he slipped into French to say, “Now, if you would but help me stand -”  
  
“ - and have you take us all down with you? Because three broken necks will help our cause _exponentially_ ,” Hamilton snorted to reply in kind. The smooth, rolling vowels of the language nonetheless came out sharp and pointed from his mouth; he used them as a lash. “No, you stubborn fool, _no_.”  
  
“You are not leaving this bed,” Laurens remarked in an exaggeratedly pleasant tone of voice, but only a simpleton would fail to see the promise glittering in his eyes.  
  
Lafayette scowled, and gave one last half-hearted surge against the hands overpowering him, his body fruitlessly straining before going limp, and he yielded.  
  
“Brutuses, the both of you,” the Frenchman grumbled once he recovered the breath to do so, returning to a petulant English once more.  
  
“We act for love of Caesar, though,” Hamilton patted his shoulder before returning to his chair. “The general already cannot visit you for seeing the shame of his own failure having put you here; imagine what you would put him through if you exacerbated your injuries?” Knowing that he was fighting with a low blow, but caring little for a clean bout if it meant his victory, he watched Lafayette finally sigh, and yield to his bed. Laurens, meanwhile, fussed to pull up his friend's disturbed bedsheets more comfortably about his body, muttering under his breath all the while.  
  
“There,” Laurens sniffed as he patted down the pillows one last time. He gave his friend's bed a critical look before returning to his own seat, and he sat down with a disgruntled sigh. “This isn't even your country, you know. There's no need to work yourself up so,” he pointed out crossly, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest.  
  
“Nor is it _your_ country,” Lafayette pointed out, his voice lined with a bristling, sullen note to match. “Not yet, that is. But, some things are universal: should not liberty be the country of all men? Truly, what is striven for here should be the want and dearest desire of all those living upon this earth. And _that_ is what will see your cause through in the end, this I have to believe while God yet loves the works of his hand.”  
  
A long moment passed with they each staring at the other. No words were further spoken, for what could be a more binding truth than that? They each, in their own way, carried that belief close to their hearts to see them through one day on to the next. And, to see them on to the next day . . .  
  
“So,” Laurens held up his deck of cards once more. “Since we have so admirably failed in our task to keep this room droll and unexciting, we need to regain some of our good standing now. Which game shall it be, gentlemen?”  
  
Hamilton did not have to pause to consider his answer. “Faro?” he was the first one to chirp, leaning forward in his seat with a hopeful grin splitting his face. Just like that, all of the tense currents flowing between them were diverted like water over a dam, and he felt his mind turn to the much more pleasing – and satisfying - task awaiting him. He was already more than ready to apply his wits against such worthy adversaries - especially if they would be gambling their respective duties on their hands. Hamilton could already think of one or two chores he'd like to wager - his laundry in particular. “It has been ages since we've had a good turn of faro,” he eagerly pressed.  
  
“You cheat,” came the answer from both of his friends - rather alarmingly - at once.  
  
“Well, if you wish to think so ill of me without my doing anything to warrant such suspicion, I suppose that we shall have to play something else,” Hamilton wrinkled his nose to say, quite put out by their low opinion of his character.  
  
“Yes,” Laurens agreed, unrepentantly. “Whist, perhaps?”  
  
“We do not have enough players for whist,” Hamilton pointed out, doing his best not to give a querulous pout when even the good-natured Lafayette did not see fit to rise in defense of his character. “Unless you want me to play for two, that is?” his eyes brightened at the prospect, intrigued, despite himself.  
  
“Doing so just may even the odds,” Lafayette clasped his hands flat together and nodded sagely to touch his fingertips to his chin.  
  
“Are you unequal to the challenge, Alexander?” Laurens gave with a playful smirk hanging on his mouth. He held the deck of cards out as if preparing to drop a gauntlet.  
  
“Me? Never,” Hamilton gave with a sharp grin, and, their challenge accepted, Laurens began to deal.  
  
They played for some time – for much longer than Hamilton first intended to stay, at that. Yet, the soft cocoon of companionship surrounding them was a soothing one, and he imagined that his time spent in such a state did him as much good as catching up on his lack of sleep would have done. In the end, the wins and losses were even amongst them, and he had shouldered away as many chores as he had heaped upon him. But they were all in increasingly high spirits, so much so that by the time Lafayette did nod off at the end of one hand, Hamilton did not mind sitting back in the relative peace and quiet that followed, enjoying the melody of the rain pattering against the windowsill alongside the merry crackling of the fire. When Laurens reached into his waistcoat to bring out his flask of watered rum, Hamilton did not turn away a swallow – and then a wince. Though that particular brand of liquid courage supplied their army more so than even rations and munitions did, that did not mean that he had to _like_ it.  
  
He made a face, and refused a second dose, even as Laurens shrugged and did not deny himself a swallow more. Instead, Hamilton merely watched his friend for a long moment, observing the working of his throat and the thoughtful look in his eyes as he stared at their bedridden comrade, until, finally:  
  
“He's right, you know,” Hamilton finally muttered on a low voice. He did not need to further explain for Laurens to understand his meaning. He let loose a breath from deep in his lungs.  
  
“Valor follows valor,” Laurens did not pretend to misinterpret him. His eyes met and held his, refusing to blink as his gaze narrowed. “That was my only thought on the field; my only impetus towards action.”  
  
As also followed bullets, however, as ultimately followed _death_. While he himself would stand with his eyes open and his arms wide to the reaper should he come for his soul in defense of his country – gladly so, even – that did not mean that he would rush out to meet him. That did not mean that he would search him out as an old friend and _welcome_ him with his neck exposed for the scythe.  
  
And so: “The next time we find the field of battle upon us, I only ask you to think of all those who would mourn you should you find so premature an end through result of your _valor_ ,” Hamilton returned. “You are essential to a great many in this life, John; a great many, indeed.”  
  
“Yes,” Laurens snorted, the narrowing of his eyes and the low consideration of his features strangely at odds with his flippant reply, “You would write a stunning eulogy for me, I am sure.”  
  
“The best,” Hamilton sniffed to agree, “but not for something as senseless as falling in a _rout_ \- ” He swallowed, and had to collect himself to gather his composure. He found his throat suddenly tight to his use; his tongue would not work, with all of his great words – ever able to build towers out of syntax and cathedrals out of sound – suddenly failing him in the face of that one, simple truth: _you are needed here, alive, and for you to throw yourself into the fight, looking for the grave to greet you . . ._  
  
“Think of your siblings, then, and of your father,” Hamilton tried first. “He would no doubt mourn his son - ”  
  
“ - or applaud,” Laurens frowned to take another swallow from his flask. “Or would I be the one rejoicing to slip the shackles of that bond? I cannot decide.”  
  
But Hamilton ignored him, and carried on, “Think of your wife, and your daughter. Don't you wish to know Frances when this conflict is over? Let me be the first to say that there is not a child on this globe who deserves to grow up without a father; there are few fates more unfair than that.” His words were low, nearly a whisper at the end, and he watched as his blows sought their target.  
  
Yet, only one strike landed out of the two he intended – and not in the way he first hoped, Hamilton understood with a twisting feeling sinking in his chest. For a wife who was a duty to him, and a daughter he knew in idea only were both more theory than a tangible reality to Laurens' mind. In some ways, the war and its fighting were familiar, and the battle-plains of a family were as foreign to him as the theater of conflict still, at times, managed to baffle their own fledgling army. Hamilton sighed, and tried again, one last time. “Think of me, then?” his mouth was weak over the syllables, he found. Even so, he meant every single word as an absolute truth, as an irrefutable fact. “You have become quite essential to my heart – just when I thought that I needed not of such sentimental ties, at that, and if you should leave me through so senseless a manner . . .”  
  
There was a strange look in Laurens eyes, a glow that he could not quite explain, even though its meaning was right there in front of him, tantalizingly close - shimmering as mist thrown by an ocean storm. He had only to reach out and touch it to feel the sea's might, and yet it was gentle as it brushed his face, unassuming and nearly soothing in counterpoint to the tempest it heralded from. Hamilton swallowed, and held his gaze, as if expecting . . .  
  
But a sad smile touched Laurens' mouth as his gaze turned guarded, and he showed his teeth to say, “Was the water still warm when you arrived?”  
  
Hamilton blinked, the rapid currents of his mind for a moment pulsing too quickly for him to slow and understand the sudden turn in conversation. And then: “Ah,” he frowned to answer, understanding the diversion – the retreat – for what it was, and yet content to allow his friend the rout he sought - for then, at least. The subject was not nearly a closed one between them. “I assumed that was you. I thank you for the trouble you took on my behalf.”  
  
“It was a group effort,” Laurens shrugged to reveal, leaning back in his chair to find a more comfortable position for the shape of his spine. “McHenry drew the short straw, and had to carry up the last pail – so he technically did more work than the rest of us.”  
  
“Then I know where to doubly express my gratitude,” Hamilton inclined his head, snorting to think: only McHenry.  
  
“I know that you like to be clean,” Laurens shrugged, looking down at the flask in his hands. He only darted a glance up again once, for a moment, and his eyes flickered over him quickly before falling away. “And I do worry about your chill, it has lingered for far too long.”  
  
“You know me,” Hamilton shrugged his concerns away as rainwater draining down a spout, “life cannot knock me down, no matter how it tries.”  
  
“It can if it pushes hard enough,” Laurens snorted to disagree. “It will only take one quick shot, one you do not see coming, and then - ”  
  
“ - is that not what I was trying to say to you?” Hamilton felt his mouth tug into a thin, dangerous line to say. His eyes glinted as with light shining off a blade. “So you cannot profess to not understanding me now, can you?”  
  
In answer, Laurens merely rolled his eyes before taking another swig of his drink – pointedly. He cleared his throat as he capped he flask and returned it to his breastpocket. “Let that be enough fussing between us, now,” he waved a hand to say. “Off with you: leave your laundry out for me, and get some sleep. I'll see that it's ready by first light.”  
  
Despite himself, Hamilton felt his eyes shine. He imitated a maiden's swoon to intone, “You are the best of men and the best of friends - that you are, John Laurens. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”  
  
Laurens waved his adulations away to gruffly reply, “I merely do not want your poor health to ruin all of my fine work if you are scrubbing in the water after so soon finding your equilibrium - ”  
  
“ - there is nothing wrong with my constitution; I am the picture of exemplary health,” Hamilton dove head-first through his lie to grant it believable force, not even first pausing to draw breath before flinging the words like stones. Even so, he could remember tropical heat and the sour scent of sickness and a last breath shuddering against his hair before -  
  
Hamilton swallowed, and stared boldly at his friend, daring him to argue otherwise. “My current health is not through a failing in my body; I almost drowned in a cold river, may I remind you - ”  
  
“ - which is _exactly_ why you and the good doctor are on a first name basis with each other,” Laurens drawled to interrupt, “So much so that - ”  
  
He went instantly silent as, on the bed, Lafayette shifted. His deep breathing turned shallow, and murmured French syllables escaped his mouth, too softly to be properly heard. His eyes blinked once, twice, and they both went still, for a moment fearing . . .  
  
But Lafayette settled into sleep a moment later, and his eyes closed again. Hamilton released a breath he had not realized to first be holding as his soft snores once again filled the room.  
  
“If we wake him up, the general will be cross,” Laurens finally muttered. “You should be off, now. I'll stay here until the doctor makes his final call.”  
  
_“The general will be cross,”_ Hamilton made a face to parrot in a sour tone. He felt his arms fold over his chest, quite without his conscious approval. “I've had enough of Washington's _crossness_ to last two lifetimes – no matter what Gilbert likes to think.”  
  
“If you can make it through this _one_ lifetime, that is,” Laurens snorted, and Hamilton refrained from reaching over and cuffing him – just barely. For a moment, his friend's face creased in consideration. He paused, and then, “Besides, it's not just Lafayette that the general's temper is roused on behalf of - no matter what you choose to ignore. Our tending to your needs was first his idea, you know.”  
  
Hamilton scowled, at once feeling something cold settle in his chest just as a strange sort of warmth bloomed deep behind the cavern of his heart, even as he told himself - sternly - that such a feeling was not to be borne . . . ever. Recognition and subsequent promotion for his talents and his achievements from those in power was one thing, but for a patron's blessing . . . for the history books to someday see only the blind fondness of a father given to a son when the names Washington and Hamilton would be spoken . . . no. _No._ He was no Lafayette with the long lines of French aristocracy and the oldest battlefields of Europe coloring his veins to so easily accept such a place within the general's heart. Instead, he was the bastard . . . orphan . . . _whore-son_ , heralding from a god-forsaken corner of the Caribbean, all but penniless and absent of any connection worth speaking of. He had only his blood, sweat, and tears – his words, his genius, and his unquenchable thirst for _more,_ to get him where he needed – nay, _deserved_ – to be, and he would not . . . he _could_ not . . .  
  
. . . and then, some part of his mind whispered . . . the part that was still ten and failing to understand just where his father had gone . . . failing to understand just _why_ his mother was more rage than tears as she threw herself into tending the shop, even when his brother finally scoffed and confirmed his child-self's worst fears: _he's_ _gone, he's_ _not coming back;_ _he doesn't want us – any of us;_ _so_ _grow up_ _and stop your sniffling_ _, Alex,_ _Mother doesn't need to worry about you . . ._ Such affection never lasted . . . such attachments were never absolute. People came and people went, and he would not allow himself to need . . .  
  
He held his jaw stiffly, and made a cold shell to encase his memories in until they burned him no more. When he finally looked up again, his mind was clear. All the while, Laurens had carefully followed the emotions blooming in his eyes, and he sighed to say, “You would have denied the courtesy out of spite and gone cold had you first known.” There was no censure in his voice, only a naked observation.  
  
“No,” Hamilton said simply, the word tight from between his lips. _Perhaps_ , his heart whispered, _probably_ , the stubbornly thorny underside to his mind gave only the truth. “I am not that daft.”  
  
“No, but you are that _stubborn_ ,” Laurens returned without regret. His eyes dared him to say otherwise.  
  
To that, Hamilton had no answer, and he finally made it to his feet, feeling more weary then than he had when first taking his seat. He held a hand up to his suddenly throbbing temples, already knowing that even one night's good sleep would not be nearly enough to do away with the migraine he then held. He thought about his mission come morning light, and fought the urge he had to sigh. There was no use lamenting what simply had to be done: for it had to be done.  
  
“I'm off to bed, now,” Hamilton squared his shoulders against his body's rebellion, feeling for all the world as a tree holding up too many limbs and then asked to move its roots time and time again. “I'm going to be a ghost walking upon the morning as it is.”  
  
Laurens inclined his head, and after he passed, he slouched down in his seat and propped his feet up on his friend's bed, looking quite content to wait out his vigil until the doctor came. Hamilton glanced one last time at the bedridden marquis, and felt a pang in his heart.  
  
“Tell Gilbert goodbye for me,” he said before moving towards the door. “I do not think I will be able to do so myself, we depart too early in the morn.” He paused before turning the door handle, and felt his words bubble up before swallowing them away. They stuck in his throat as he forced out, “And tell him . . .”  
  
But he could not quite find the words, not even when his mind was a veritable fount for the English language and its construction. The vowels were all ash on his tongue; the constants waited as embers, poised for flame, but he could not coax them to burn.  
  
In answer to his struggles, Laurens only smiled a slow, sad smile to say, “He knows,” as he leaned back in his seat. His final whisper, when it was spoken, was almost lost to the night, so quietly was it uttered, “We all know.”  
  
And Hamilton pushed the door open, and slipped out into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> On September 11, 1777, the Continental army fought to keep the British from claiming the capitol of Philadelphia at the Battle of Brandywine Creek. To sum up the battle: due to several mitigating circumstances, including foggy conditions and very mixed intelligence, Washington quite literally had no idea where Howe and Cornwallis were moving their troops. (Yes, it was indeed possible to lose an entire army on the playing field of 18th century warfare.) Washington's answering to where he thought they were left the right flank of his army wide open - an elementary mistake that led to a massive loss for the Americans. That they were not annihilated outright and lived to fight another day was due to the courage of men like the Marquis de Lafayette, who helped organize a sensible, orderly rout. Unfortunately, Lafayette took a shot to the leg during the encounter, which made quite a mess for Washington's surgeon to attend to after the battle (and prompted Washington's “treat him as if he were my own son, for I love him as such” statement). Other men, like John Laurens, fought with commendable valor – he, so much so, that Lafayette later fretted for his friend by commenting, "It was not his fault that he was not killed or wounded ... he did every thing that was necessary to procure one or the other." Even Washington noted Laurens' “intrepidity bordering on rashness” in the field - which was saying something from the man who thought that he was immune to bullets and did not blink on the front-lines while his aides and fellow officers fretted over his wellbeing.
> 
> The loss at Brandywine left the capitol wide open for the British to take uncontested - as trying to hold Philadelphia would have meant the certain destruction of the Continental army at the time. Congress evacuated, as did many Patriot citizens, and to ensure that the British would have few spoils of war, Alexander Hamilton was first tasked with the mission of burning flour mills, and then securing supplies - such as blankets, boots (well over 1,000 men in the army were barefoot), and horses - from the locals while giving out receipts for them to cash in after the war. This was a very delicate situation for their 'republican' cause. That Hamilton, then only twenty-two years old, was trusted with the task was a huge sign of Washington's unswerving belief in both his quick mind and clever tongue to see such a task done peacefully and diplomatically. Hamilton's only detour came when falling under British fire while raiding a mill at Daviser's Ferry; the assault from the shoreline was too intense to sail away from, killing one of his men and wounding another, and thus prompting those remaining to dive into the cold, rain-swollen currents of the Schuylkill river and swim to safety. Hamilton, however, was swept downriver and accounted dead - and to the glad surprise of many later showed up at Washington's headquarters in Chester, soaked and shivering, but still quite alive. ;)
> 
> Meanwhile, European warfare at the time demanded that holding an enemy's capitol equaled victory. So it was to the surprise of the British that the Americans continued to fight when they were 'beaten' – first in small skirmishes like the Battle of Paoli (which was dubbed a 'massacre' with Brigadier General Wayne's heavy losses: two hundred and seventy-two dead, wounded, and missing, versus only four British casualties), and then on a larger scale at Germantown, when, not even a month after Brandywine, Washington made a bold, offensive march against Howe's forces on October 6th. Though Germantown was another loss for Washington due to more thick fog and botched coordination between his army columns, his battle-plans were creative and complex – perhaps too complex, and, even in defeat, the Patriots' spirits were relatively high. The 'audacity' of their daring to engage the British – fighting when they should have been down, again - had Europe curiously intrigued, wondering how such a rag-tag army could hold out time and time again against the greatest fighting force on earth. France, in particular, was impressed with both the gumption shown at Germantown and the massive American victory in the north at Saratoga under General Horatio Gates, (actually, *cough*Benedict Arnold*/cough*, though he was unfairly robbed of the credit), and King Louis XVI was at last prompted to give serious consideration to entering the conflict on the American side.
> 
> Following Germantown's loss, Washington kept a cool head and refused to be baited into trying to reclaim Philadelphia, just as he avoided warring with Howe at White Marsh and Eagle Hill, where his men would be at a lethal disadvantage. Instead, his army went to their winter headquarters at Valley Forge, where the harsh season and conspirators within his own camp would prove to be just as toxic an enemy as the British. But, that is a story for another time. ;)


End file.
